


we're the new face of faliure (prettier and younger but not any better off)

by EmmaLikesTheInternet



Category: Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco, Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Crime, Frerard, Graffiti, M/M, Other, Poverty, Ryden, Strippers, also im sick of having to use american spellings, brendon urie runs a gay bar, but then joetrick, enjoy, genderfluid ryan ross, gerard way steals cars and volenteers at dog shelters, i kinda wrote this on a whim, i will put trigger warnings on each chapter, mikey is a stripper and works in a bookshop, one-sided peterick, petekey, references to drug addiction and depression and verbal abuse and self harm and anorexia, set in brighton because i love brighton, sorry - Freeform, this is so weird
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-07 16:00:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5462564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmaLikesTheInternet/pseuds/EmmaLikesTheInternet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>frank iero is a tiny bit of a disaster.</p><p>but in this world of mess and art and pain and the seaside, he's certainly not the only one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. am i more than you bargained for yet?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> work title from im like a lawyer with the way im always trying to get you off (me and you) by fall out boy
> 
> chapter title from sugar we're going down,,also by fall out boy okay nice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> are you guys ready for another rollercoaster of mildly shitty writing bad grammar gayness slow updates and memes
> 
> I am procrastinating updating falling in love (my other fic) so I decided to post this which has been rotting away on my computer for a good three months (im sorry guys i'll update soon I swear)
> 
> so in the memetime

The day Frank Iero’s life changed forever was a Thursday.

Thursdays are known worldwide as the worst day of the week. You’re exhausted, the week is really getting you down, you’re moments away from murdering everybody who dares breathe the same air as you, and it’s not even Friday yet. 

The all-round shittiness of Thursday certainly wasn’t sparing Frank. Quite the contrary, actually. Today, he had fallen asleep in class twice, had an argument with his best friend Ray, got insulted for his height multiple times by the lame-ass kid with the forehead, and gotten two detentions. Oh, and, like every other day, got pushed into a locker and called slurs with varying creativity (his favourite was probably lil bitch because it sounded more like a compliment to him. Or possibly pickle slut…poetry at its finest) more times than he could count.

All in a day’s work, he thought. 

Now he was sitting on a brick wall waiting for his other friend Mikey. He had met Mikey back when he would waste hours away, sitting on said wall, avoiding going home to his miserable family life. One day, he had got there to find Mikey sitting right on his spot for precisely the same reason.

They didn’t question each other, and a friendship bloomed.

Mikey was built like a twig, had floppy hair and glasses, and always seemed to be frowning. When they met, he had been in his last year of school, a year above Frank, and had since left school and worked in a bookshop. (The first time Frank had walked in, looking for a present for Ray, and seen him behind the desk, he spent approximately five hours laughing his ass off. Mikey then threatened him with death, and he was terrified for about a month.)

Frank knew from spending most of his free time with him that there was more to Mikey than met the eye. He held this secret supply of coffee-fuelled strength that Frank discovered the hard way, and was a lot more sensitive than his poker face and dry humour let off.

Frank clearly remembered the day he had come to their meeting place with the smallest of grins on his faces. All he had said was ‘I’m moving out of my parents’ house,’ and resumed the typical conversation of slagging off people they knew, moaning about their day, and making shitty puns.

Frank wasn’t dumb. He could see the hurt in Mikey’s eyes. He could see the scars on his wrists. He could see the secrets heaped upon his shoulders.

“I hate Thursdays.” Mikey announced, plonking his bony ass beside Frank.

“I hate all days.”

“I hate days that involve people.”

“I hate involving with people.”

“I hate people.”

“I hate my mom.”

“I hate my dad.”

“I hate you.”

“Rude.”

They both chuckled, a comfortable silence resuming. Frank just breathed in steadily, erasing all bad thoughts, erasing his sadness, erasing the world around him. 

Here, beside the sea, he was free. The life of the city surrounded him, washing over him, but never touching him. He could hear the screeches of the kids on the play park nearby, while their mothers watched them warily, because they cared. He could hear the sound of cars racing past, all with a destination, all going somewhere, packed with stressed dads and brooding teenagers and exhausted mums and bouncy kids, off to resume there perfect lives. He could hear the roar of the never-tiring sea, the babble of plastic holidaymakers pursuing relaxing daytrips to the seaside, the friends enjoying each other’s company, the couples enjoying a romantic evening. He could hear the sound of the city ignoring him, and he wouldn’t change it for anything.

“So, anything interesting happen today?” Mikey nudged his friend gently.

“I had a fight with Ray which really sucks because he’s the only decent person in this entire bloody city apart from you. That wasn’t all, but it’s all I care about. The forehead dude called me short again, and it’s just getting annoying.”

Mikey chuckled. “I like Brendon.”

“Where do you actually know him from? You never associated with anyone when you went to my school.”

“Oh, you know,” Mikey waved his hand nonchalantly. “Places.”

Frank opened his mouth to further interrogate poor Mikey, but the death glare the slight boy shot him bored into his very soul. Honestly, Mikey was terrifying.

“How was your day?” said Frank, for politeness’s sake. Also, he genuinely cared about how Mikey’s day was, which was quite a bizarre notion when it came to Frank. 

“Well, I hate Thursdays, you know? They are the worst days, ever. Like I said.”

Frank wholeheartedly agreed.

“You know it’s scientifically proven that you’re more likely to wake up grumpy on a Thursday than any other day?”

Mikey frowned. “Did you read that in national geographic?”

“Yes. Why, did you read that article too?”

Mikey nodded. “I have no shame.”

“That is how to live life, my friend.”

There was a lull in the conversation as they both leant back onto the wall, lost in thought and highly content with their company.

“It also feels like you could change the world on a Thursday, you know?”

Frank raised an eyebrow at Mikey.

“It’s always the worst days where everything changes, I think,” he continued. “It’s always when things go wrong, and when things begin to make sense. Sometimes, I love having bad days, because you realise how insignificant and odd your worries are, and also how dark your mind is. It’s this sense of clarity.” Mikey dampened his lips, eyes distant. “The point is, I think it’s the worst of days where the best things begin.”

Before he could go on, Frank’s phone began to blare out some generic ringtone. He glanced down at the screen and an expression of horror struck his face as he remembered where he was supposed to be.

Mikey noted this fact. “Frank, is it your mum? Shit. Answer it!”

Dumbfounded, Frank pressed the ‘accept’ button.

“Oh man. Mum, I’m so sorry. It completely slipped my mind, I’ll make it up for you, I swear-“

“Frank. Come home now, please.” Her voice was uncharacteristically quiet.

“Okay, I’ll be back in a moment.” He hung up and looked at Mikey. “She…she wasn’t angry.” He gulped. “She’s normally angry. I forgot she was coming home early, and she would have yelled. She asked me to come home please! It isn’t like her…”

Frank was shaking, and Mikey awkwardly put an arm around him. Comfort wasn’t his forte; it was the only human skill he hadn’t mastered for his evil intentions; but he knew Frank needed comfort. 

Then something hit his creepy mind-reader fortune telling mind. 

“Frank, you never mention your dad. When was the last time he paid a visit?”

-

Mikey, obviously, had been right.

Once he got home, his mum had pounced.

“Frank, please sit down.”

Frank’s mind went blank from sheer anxiety. His hands were shaking.

“Frank, I need to tell you something.” He looked into his mother’s eyes. Eyes normally filled with rage or with frustration, eyes that looked at him with disgust as abusive words spilt from her mouth. Eyes normally clouded with drink, eyes that struck fear into Frank’s heart. 

Eyes now filled with a dark, scary emotion. Eyes ow filled with isolation, with worry, with fear.

“Frank. Your father…” She paused, voice trembling, as Frank’s worst fears were confirmed. Mikey was right. Mikey was always right.

“Your father’s coming home.”

Frank was speechless.

“No. No. This can’t be happening!”

“Frank-“

“I won’t let him! He doesn’t live here! Why? Why can’t he just get out of my life? Why can’t you both get out of my life?” Tears poured down Frank’s face. “I can’t. I can’t do this.”

“Frank-“

“Didn’t you hear me? Leave me alone!”

“HOW DARE YOU!” his mother roared. She raised a trembling hand above her head, and Frank braced himself, squeezing his eyes tight.

He slowly opened them when no blow came.

His mum was looking at the floor, mascara running down her face.

“You think I want this either?” she said softly, voice breaking.

“Mum, I-“

“Come on. We’re going shopping.”

-

Frank sat in the boot of the car, headphones plugged in, volume up loud.

His dad couldn’t come home. He couldn’t let him. His dad was a monster.

Music, Frank. Focus on the music.

His dad was a monster. His dad made his mum how she was. His dad made his own mother despise him, fear him. His dad would wreck everything good that remained, all the things that gave him happiness.

Focus on the music. Drown out the world. Drown out reality. 

His dad would ruin it all, then run away, leaving Frank with a mess, just like he had ten years ago. His dad would take away Mikey, and Ray. His dad would take away his guitar, his music. His dad would destroy art and the sea and everything that mattered in this wicked world.

No. Nothing will take away the sea.

His dad was a monster who would stop at nothing, but nobody can destroy the sea. As long as the sea kept creating its moon fuelled waves that rage at the coastline on their endless quest to conquer the earth, Frank would keep on living. The sea gave Frank that strength he needed to hold on, to keep on living, to carry on fighting, just like it. As long as the sea was there, Frank was okay. 

There was a tiny part of Frank that kept niggling at his brain. There was a tiny part of Frank that was whispering words in his ear, words that struck him with sheer terror. There was a tiny part of Frank that kept telling him that he was just like his father.

The evil pumped through his veins. He was dirty, corrupted, unclean, because of that monster. The monster that created him would always be a part of Frank. The dark hole inside of Frank, the void that was swallowing him whole. Because he could never fully disconnect from his father.

Frank was a monster too.

Music. Think about the music. The music was all that mattered right now.

Well, Frank thought to himself. At least my life can’t get much crazier than this.

How wrong he was.

-

Frank had drifted to sleep after that, headphones still blasting loud music, curled up in the boot. He was pulled from dreamland (which, despite Frank’s tendencies to nightmares, was currently a lot nicer than reality) when he heard somebody unlock the car door.

“Mum?” he asked sleepily.

Now, this poor, innocent person had just been pacing the car park, clueless about the boy curled up in the boot and his woes. Except, he wasn’t quiet innocent. He was actually a part-time car thief, and it wasn’t his fault Frank’s mother had left the car keys on the driver’s seat, trusting her son to not give in to the stress of the day and pass out in the boot. It wasn’t his fault that he had flat rent to pay, a brother to support, a bunch of debts to pay off, and pills to buy.

Well, the pills thing was sort of his fault, but hey. He was unsuspecting that this jackpot he had stumbled across came with a price. When he found it unlocked, not believing his luck, he had no idea about the beautiful raven-haired boy in the trunk that would enter his careful life and fuck everything up in the best way possible. 

So, as he opened the door as inconspicuously as possible for the lame-ass car thief he secretly was, he practically had a heart attack when a voice drifted from the back of the car.

His reflexes took over, and he grabbed the keys, locking himself and the boy in, before shoving them into his pocket.

A boy poked his head up from the boot, squinting at him with eyes still blurry with sleep. He had dark hair framing a feminine face, a lip ring, and beautiful eyes, a faint golden colour, that were trained on the car thief, confusion imminent on his pretty face. 

“You’re not my mum…”

“Uh…no?”

“Are you stealing this car?”

“Yeah…”

Frank squinted at the strange man. “Man, my day can’t get any more surprising. You’re a bit of a shitty car thief, you know”

The man just looked at him.

“I mean, you don’t even notice there’s a sleeping person in the boot, and when he confronts you, you kinda…stare. Like a startled rabbit. You realise you have complete control in this situation, right?”

The shitty car thief in question swallowed, blinking slowly at Frank. Frank, of course, took this as an opportunity to insult him.

“You look pretty nerdy. Your hair needs washing. You do realise there’s paint on that jumper? And it’s too small for you. I can’t talk though, with my school uniform. Why do school uniforms exist? It’s a public school, not Eton. Jesus. Fucking Brighton. Now, if you saw me during the weekend, you would trust that I’m fashion master immediately, and I could insult you more effectively. Do you actually speak? Hmm. You remind me of my friend, Ray. He’s such a nerd that I think he actually played Dungeons and Dragons once. Do you paint?”

Suddenly, something seemed to click in the strangers mind. “This is actually my friend Lindsey’s jumper, but yeah, I do. I like art.”

“That’s really cool! I play guitar!”

The man looked taken aback by Frank’s enthusiasm, and Frank defiantly didn’t blame him. 

He swung into the passenger seat. “Is Lindsey your girlfriend?” he asked, nudging the car thief.

He laughed. “Nah.”

Frank stared out of the window dreamily for a moment. “I love watching the rain,” he remarked softly, still staring. “Anyway, I’m Frank. Frank Iero. What’s your name, lame car thief?”

He sighed. “I’m not lame. I’m doing pretty well at stealing this car, thank you very much.” He couldn’t believe he was having this conversation.

“You’re just not very…intimidating.” Frank shrugged dismissively.

“Not very intimidating, huh?” The man scowled darkly. “Get out of the car.”

“Nope.”

“Yes.”

“Nope.”

“I’ll…I’ll beat you up!”

Frank actually laughed out loud, shaking his head in disbelieve. “I’m not leaving.”

“You have to!” 

“Nope.”

“But…I’m trying to steal this car!” The man’s tone was becoming whiny.

“Well, I’m not going anywhere. What you gonna do about it?”

The man scowled again, glowering, as Frank leaned back with an idiotic smirk on his face. All of a sudden, a small, intimidating smile danced across the car thief’s lips, as an idea crossed his mind.

“I’m terribly sorry about this Frank.”

“About what?” Frank was more than a little disconcerted by the man’s sudden change in attitude. “Who…who even are you?”

“My name is Gerard Way. And I’m going to have to kidnap you.”

 

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tada
> 
> I would also like to confirm that you are more likely to wake up grumpy on a thursday and yes I did read that in national geographic


	2. here we are now, entertain us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this bad sorry frends
> 
> title from smells like teen spirit by nirvana

Of all things Gerard Way expected the small punk boy to do, he was very unprepared when his kidnappee suddenly burst into tears.

“Oh my God! Are you okay?” Crying people scared the living shit out of Gerard, especially crying teenagers.

“Jesus Gerard! You’re kidnapping me! You’re supposed to grunt and sell me into human slavery, not ask me if I’m okay!”

Gerard had never been insulted by a crying person before, and was a little taken aback.

Before he could answer, Frank continued. “To answer your question, no, I am not okay. I’m not o-fucking-kay.”

Gerard’s inner sweetheart, who perhaps wasn’t as cleverly disguised as the man thought, immediately took over. He found himself gingerly wrapping an arm around the stranger who just-so-happened to be getting in the way of the easiest car robbery in history, because, despite it all, Gerard Way cared.

He didn’t know this boy, but he could care, if Frank needed him to.

Frank probably would’ve made some sarcastic comment, but this guy was being so nice that he simply couldn’t bring himself to. Honestly, the first person who gave a fuck in so many years, and it was some random, slightly nerdy guy who was trying to steal his mum’s car.

That was one of his favourite things about this superficial, weak, pointless life. The irony.

“I’m not okay,” he repeated, figuring that this guy was currently the least likely person to judge him. “I’m not okay, but it doesn’t matter, because everyone else is okay. Life goes on, with me being not okay. But I’m worthless, aren’t I? In the face of the world, I am nothing. I am not okay, but nobody cares, do they? Maybe I am crying out in desperation, maybe I’m hurting so bad, but even I can’t hear the plea for help. Even I don’t care about myself. I’m not okay, but that’s okay, because everyone else is okay.”

“Okay.” Frank smiled weakly while Gerard cursed his painfully inapt social skills. He could spiral off on some mental tangent of self-loathing, but, right now, Frank was who mattered. Because Gerard Way meant well, and nobody could fault him on that.

He looked at this vertically-challenged, loudmouth boy sitting in the passenger seat of the car he was stealing, and silently sent out rolling waves of care. He didn’t know what to say, but he would feel; he would try and comfort people, he would listen and he would feel for them. Gerard knew that nobody would even realise how much he cared, however. Nobody would notice his unusual willingness, his sensitive emotion.

Both of them had gotten something wrong. Gerard was wrong about his caring; one day, somebody would notice this quirky, sweet man’s quiet efforts. And Frank was wrong about his car thief.

Frank thought that he could say this to Gerard because he wouldn’t be judged and because, soon, Gerard would forget about him and move on, like everyone else in his life. But those words; those harsh, crude declarations of self-hatred; would matter so much to the awkward, well-meaning man. 

Gerard wasn’t forgetting about Frank any time soon.

-

Mist choked the air as the old car pushed its way through the busy streets. All around, you could see distant figures Christmas shopping, the glimmering of festive lights everywhere.

"Where are you taking me?"

"Close your eyes." Frank complied.

Gerard drove down a side road and through a parking complex to reach a beat-up, lonely block of flats hidden by tall sheets of metal forming a makeshift fence to keep out the rest of the world. It was the kind of place you would get mugged by some dodgy guy with a ski mask who couldn’t even use his pocketknife correctly, where troubled teens kicked walls and shut out the world as they slowly fell apart, where a divorced 80-year-old man who had no pension because of ‘the goddamn government with all their selfish arse policies’ couldn’t support it rented out a flat and waited patiently for death to take him. 

He pulled up beside it. "Home sweet home."

Frank opened his eyes, blinking slowly at the older man. "Gerard," he said slowly, "What are you going to do to me?"

Gerard frowned. "I don't know." He opened the door, jumping out and gesturing for Frank to copy. "Come on."

He locked the car and took Frank up into the flat.

"This is my flat. It's pretty small, and a bit old and dodgy, but it serves its purpose."

"Who painted the walls like that?" Frank pointed at the walls, covered in great, colourful scenes with winding vines and bolts of lightning and monstrous creatures and all things strange and wonderful.

"Me," Gerard said quietly.

"It's amazing!" Frank breathed, causing Gerard to blush a little.

"Thank you. The walls were all gross and damp so we had to make do."

"We?"

"Me and my younger brother. He lives here with me too. That's his room, right there. Don't go inside, he'll skin you alive. And probably ask a lot of questions."

Frank found it hard to imagine Gerard with a younger brother. He wandered if he was nerdy and chubby like Gerard, or if they were those kind of polar opposite brothers. He hoped that he could meet him.

"Now, that's the kitchen. It's pretty cramped, sorry. Would you like some coffee?"

"Yes please." Gerard quickly busied himself with making coffee, while Frank simply stood there, silent.

Once it was ready, they both sat down onto the worn sofa in the cramped living room. Frank curled up, making himself comfortable as the stress from the day began to take its toll in waves of exhaustion. He sipped his coffee, looking up at his kidnapper, Gerard, and taking in his appearance.

His face was half covered with greasy black hair, but Frank could see his bright hazel eyes, subtly rimmed with eyeliner. His face wasn’t particularly memorable; it was round, pale and flat, with a blunt nose and a wide mouth.

He was wearing that clingy, paint-stained jumper that belonged to his not-girlfriend. The tightness meant that Frank could see his slightly chubby stomach and soft shape. The fat around his hips almost gave him the illusion of curves.

He also wore some equally as tight jeans, the knees all fucked up from wear, showing his weirdly knobbly knees that reminded Frank of Mikey, who had insanely messed up knees. He had once explained it was something to do with his feet, which were built weird, meaning he had dodgy posture. His thighs were also plus sized, and Frank was kind of surprised that it wasn’t repulsive in the slightest. He seemed to suit the chub.

Frank looked him up and down. Yes, he defiantly seemed to fit his body. Everything about him seemed…right. Familiar. 

He was sort of like the sea. Imperfect, and messed up, and weird, and cruel. But, despite this, still good. 

The sea was so awful, but it mattered so much. And, for some reason, Gerard made him think of the sea.

-

“Frank, do you happen to know anything about kidnaps?”

Frank had been staring deep into his coffee when Gerard spoke. “Is that a threat?”

“No. I’m just asking, because I really don’t know what to do with you, now I’ve kidnapped you.”

“Feed me to your dog?”

“Don’t have a dog.”

“Sell me into prostitution?”

“No thanks.” Gerard sighed deeply. “I’ve just gotten myself into an even worse situation.”

Gerard looked at the cause of his woe, the small, problematic boy with his sarcasm and insecurities that had somehow crossed Gerard’s path.

He had dark hair, most likely dyed, which messily hung over his forehead. Calling Gerard’s hair greasy had been very hypocritical, as his hair desperately needed a wash. His face was small and pale, and he had deeply set eyes that were a dark golden colour.

He wore a blazer and an untucked shirt over some jeans that were probably against the dress code. Gerard recognised the school logo, as both he and his brother had gone to the same school.

He was rather small, and his legs were short and stubby. His hands were also tiny, and had a multitude of Sharpie doodles all over them, like tattoos.

He was nothing amazing, but Gerard felt inclined to care about him. He had a certain light to his smile, a certain sparkle to his gaze, which gave Gerard an inkling that there was much more to him than what met the eye. And that he was not the kind of person you met every day.

Gerard brushed these weird thoughts away. He got them all the time, and very rarely did they end up having even a grain of truth in them.

“But, how is this a problem?”

Gerard sighed.

“Well, I’ve fucking kidnapped you.”

“It’s not like I resisted.”

“I took you away. That’s not legal. I’ll get arrested oh god we’ll have to leave oh god but what about Grandma oh my god she’ll die I’ve messed this all up it’s all ruined, oh god, oh god, this is bad.”

Frank looked carefully at the flustered man, feeling a strange surge of protectiveness, an urge to hold him and make everything better.

“It’s okay, Gerard.”

“No it isn’t. I’ve taken you away from your home against your will! I need to send you back, I need to-“

Frank finally snapped, drawing his mouth into a tight line and smacking the anxious man.

“Have you even considered I don’t want to go back?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *gets into habit of making everything a cliffhanger*


	3. you know, you know, no you dont, you dont

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> title from all these things that i've done by the killers
> 
> if anybody ever wonders why I take so long to update, it is because I listen to music when I write, and the thing about listening to music is basically every other song I have to dramatically lip sync I am terribly sorry

Frank groaned at the intrusive sun, casting rays of light across his body. The day was clear and crisp, a cold draft whipping around the room from an open window somewhere. Frank could even hear birds twittering, very Disney-like and ultimately extremely irritating. The sun must’ve woken him before his alarm could. He closed his eyes, eager to enjoy some stolen moments of sleep before school. 

“Shut the fuck up! Goddamn birds.” Frank sat up urgently. That wasn’t his mum’s voice…

He took in his surroundings, head spinning. Where was he? 

Panic began to grip at his throat. His arms became heavy, hands shaking violently. His breath was quickening.

Where was he? Where was he?

He stood up, refusing to let the oncoming anxiety attack overcome him. He just needed to get this all under control.

Breathe. Move arms. Breathe. Still hands. Breathe. Swallow the bile. Breathe. 

A few seconds passed, or maybe a few hours. It didn’t really matter to Frank anymore. Because he was okay. And he was breathing, and something about that was incredibly beautiful.

His life was changing; he knew that, at the very least. Everything about his life of orderly chaos had just been taken and turned upside down. The craziness Frank was used to had been replaced by a certain calm that had overcame him once he stopped panicking. 

The flat was like some kind of purgatory, as, in the midst of all this strangeness and wrongness, he was breathing.

People always dread change, like some kind of deeply engraved human instinct. Whenever there’s some upcoming turnaround in your life, people immediately rush to comfort you; ‘change is healthy’, ‘change is a part of life’. 

But once change is sprung upon you, you realise everything you’ve ever associated with change is bullshit. Change is addictive. A life on the run. A life on the edge of a cliff face, a life where anything is possible. 

Change had come, and Frank knew that nothing would be the same again, in this shitty flat full of art and coffee and chaos and calm.

“Would you like breakfast?”

Frank looked up at the man in the doorway, a hesitant smile on his face that Frank couldn’t help but mimic.

“Yes please.”

-

“I’m sorry for, like, inconveniencing you. I just…I really don’t wanna go home. But it’s okay, I’ll go back.”

Gerard looked at the small and slightly irritating boy, deep golden eyes watching him uncertainly. Frank wasn’t the only one who had sensed something in the damp air of the house; Gerard felt on edge. Like he was leaning over a cliff face, hypnotised by the swirl of the sea below, welcoming him to his certain doom.

He didn’t believe in destiny or fate or soulmates or even love, particularly. But he knew Frank had changed things. He was too close to the edge now, and, deep inside, he had been expecting this.

Frank was ordinary, he meant nothing. He was bitchy, self-absorbed and problematic. He was a human, for God’s sake. But he had ruined Gerard’s life already, so there was no going back.

“Stay. We can work this out, somehow. But you might as well stay for a while.”

“Wait. What?”

“Stay here with me. I know you don’t want to go back, and I know what it feels like to go home to something you spend your entire day dreading.”

Frank was speechless, staring at the greasy, slightly overweight man who had either just saved or ruined his life.

He didn’t have to face his father. He could stay here, be content, fix himself, at least temporarily. He had time; time to build up courage. 

He was okay. Maybe only for now, but now was all that mattered, as nobody is ever okay forever.

Gerard was shocked as he felt arms wrap themselves around him.

“Thank you.”

The sea sure was fascinating, Gerard thought to himself. 

-

Gerard and his mystery brother were both out, and Frank had found a guitar.

His fingers danced across the graceful instrument, tracing all the scratches and smudges that decorated the surface in a pretty pattern of imperfection. Life had taken its toll on this guitar, and had left scars, like it does with anything and everything.

Frank loathed perfection anyway, which he thought was pretty healthy.

Somebody had smashed a bit of the side, so it was dented and looked really weird. Frank strummed it; it was slightly out of tune, and desperately needed restringing. 

The sound had a slightly metallic edge. It sounded tired, quite simply. It was one hell of a messed up guitar. 

It was beautiful, he thought, picking out a melody. Before long, he was lost in music.

The place was teeming with art; from the colour that adorned the walls, to the teetering stacks of books, both fiction and comics, all with broken spines and dog-eared pages. Earlier, Frank had found a copy of The Hobbit, margin filled with notes, text highlighted in bright pink. It had made him smile impossibly wide.

The whole flat was ridiculously messy and cramped, but Frank thought it was amazing. It was lived in, and that was a delightful change from his aunt’s minimalist bungalow with the fluffy cream carpet, or his mother’s house with the dark, lonely rooms.

His mother. He wondered what she was doing.

His father returning was unthinkable. He would steal everything and ruin everything and scare him and hurt him. He was evil he would hurt he was invincible he would change things he would destroy all that mattered and he was just like him he was just like Frank and Frank was a monster and Frank was evil and Frank would hurt and Frank would stop at nothing and Frank would change things and-

But no. He was safe here. He was safe in the flat of art and change and life.

The music from the beautiful guitar filled him, like hot soup and a meaningful hug, because the music would scare away the monsters under the bed.

Because Frank was a child. A terrified child with a tangled thoughts and a mess of words and a certain love for the seaside and everything was wrong and nothing made sense but maybe in the flat of art things would begin to seem a little clearer.

He carried on playing the guitar. It was brokenly beautiful; beautifully broken.

He wanted to cry, but instead he closed his eyes, played his guitar, and breathed. Again and again and again, like the crashing of the ocean on the shore.

“You found my old guitar, huh?”

He opened his eyes, looking at Gerard standing, watching. Their gazes met.

“When you said you played guitar, I didn’t know you would be so good at it,” he continued.

“When you said you painted, I didn’t know you would be so good at it.”

“Touché.” Gerard chuckled, and Frank found himself smiling, just a tiny bit. There was a brief silence.

“I’m sorry for leaving you so soon,” Gerard continued. “Did you get my note?”

“Yeah, I got it. I nosed around the place a bit, I hope you don’t mind. You have a lot of beanbags and an excellent taste in comics.”

“There was once a sale at ikea.” Gerard chuckled at the memory, eyes distant. “After a solid three hours, me and my friend Ryan were just about to accept our fate and live the rest of our lives in a tent eating cornflake bars when a member of staff approached us and started rambling about the shops’ beanbag bargains. They were real good.”

“Wow. Is he your boyfriend or something?”

“The member of staff?”

“Ryan.”

Gerard scratched the back of his neck for a moment. Frank had noticed this before, it must be a nervous habit. 

“They, actually. And no.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

Gerard blinked. “Frank, are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh god, I shouldn’t have left you. I-“

“It’s fine. Kidnappees gotta fend for themselves sometimes, while you’re out there, being a superhero, saving attractive women from burning buildings, cuddling kittens, rescuing kittens, being amazing, flying off into the night, cuddling more kittens…”

“All in a day’s work for your run-of-the-mill car thief.” They both laughed. “But, seriously Frank. You don’t look okay. Is there anything I can do?”

“Did you really wear that jumper outside?” Frank asked suddenly. “Like, did you actually interact with people while wearing that jumper?”

Gerard scowled. “What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s crumpled, it has a hole in it, it’s distasteful, and…is that glitter?”

“Is insulting my fashion choices all you do?”

“Well, it’s horrifying.”

“It’s comfy!”

“It’s maroon, for God’s sake!”

Gerard scowled again. “Go on then, you wow me with your own clearly stunning fashion sense. I’m off to make some soup. And there is nothing wrong with this jumper!”

Frank resumed playing the beat up guitar. This time, he had a smile on his face.

-

Frank reappeared in the kitchen twenty minutes later, with an armful of clothes and some extremely tight jeans.

“You want fashion? I’ll show you fashion, apprentice.”

Gerard rolled his eyes. “Where did you get all those clothes?”

“Around. Your mystery brother has an excellent style, by the way. Hang on a moment, did you not save any soup for me?”

“You ate an entire pot of olives. Don’t think I don’t notice these things.” Frank stuck his tongue out at the man. 

“So, fashion, innit. There are a few quick rules I’ll go through. Come join me, child.”

Gerard sighed, but obliged to humour him. Also in the tiniest hope it would make him feel a little better.”

“Rule one: wear black, and only black. None of that maroon shit you have going on.”

“There is nothing wrong with my jumper!”

“GeRARD, MAROON IS NOT AN EMO COLOUR!”

They bickered like that for well over an hour, insulting each other casually. Frank’s general style rule was to make sure every outfit reflected his innermost emotions, and Gerard found him completely hilarious. This, of course, pissed Frank off a little, and the process continued through his long winded fashion lecture. 

Gerard felt himself being drawn closer to the mysterious boy with the apparently black soul. Maybe he was romanticising it all, but the ball of issues Frank was intrigued him. And, annoying as he was, he was good company. 

The doorbell rang, cutting his thoughts short. It was probably his brother, coming home from work. Guess it was time for Frank to meet the other Way.

-

Frank looked up as Gerard as he stood to answer the doorbell. Nothing else to do, Frank followed.

It must be Gerard’s mystery brother with the excellent fashion sense. He wandered how he would react to Gerard kidnapping him.

As the door swung open, Frank craned his neck with curiosity. What met his eyes, he was defiantly not expecting.

There, standing outside the small flat, was a tall boy in what looked suspiciously like a strippers costume, large trench coat wrapped around his shoulders. His hair was styled fancily, and on his face was a painfully familiar look, some perfect mix between grumpy and resigned. 

“Ugh, I left my keys at Pete’s, and the goddamn-“

The boy in the doorway turned his head, eyes widening as he met Frank’s gaze.

“Mikey?”

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> looking at my posters:
> 
> friend: oh wow you made your wall emo  
> other friend: that twenty one pilots poster is really kinky  
> first friend: wait is that the one who made out with kim kardashian in the one with the monkeys


	4. everyone is so full of shit...born and raised by hypocrites...hearts recycled but never saved...from the cradle to the grave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> title from some song by green day which ive forgotten the title of its one of the long ones on american idiot I don't know man google it
> 
> why haven't you updated? ha well you see im a piece of shit
> 
> sorry the pacing of this is weird I fell asleep midsentence which threw me off a little but hey

“What the fuck, dude?”

“Right back at you.”

Frank and Mikey were sat cross-legged in the doorway of the flat, a breeze rattling from one of those flat windows with the blurred-out glass, propped open; the kind you always find in the sad staircases of apartment blocks, always coated in a certain kind of dirt that never really washed off, no matter how hard you tried.

Gerard had disappeared to the kitchen, with some sort of mediocre excuse involving coffee. Despite having known the guy for about a day, Frank really wasn’t surprised. It was just how it was.

“What are you doing in my flat?” 

Frank was frozen to the spot, eyes locked on the new arrival. This couldn’t be happening. Could this week be any more insane? That would probably tempt fate, so he kept the words to himself.

“I think the real question is, why are you in a feathered stripper costume?”

Mikey scowled. “Get out of my swamp.” They both paused for a minute or so, frozen, glowering. Then Mikey caught Frank’s eye and they both burst out laughing.

“I’m barely in your swamp.”

“For your information, I am wearing this feathered stripper costume because I am a stripper.”

“Fair enough.” There was a short lapse in the conversation. “Hold on, I thought you worked in a bookshop?”

“I do. I have two jobs.”

Frank shook his head in disbelief. “Whoa, I have so much dirt on you. This could ruin your street cred.”

“Frank, you don’t even know half of it. And I have a street cred? I wasn’t aware of that.”

“Of course you have a street cred. You’re Mikey Fuckin Way.” There was another short lapse in the conversation. “Hang on, what do you mean I don’t know half of it?”

“Gerard, you can come back now!” Mikey winked at him secretively.

“Are you guy’s gonna start yelling?” Gerard handed both of them a steaming mug of coffee.

“Probably not.”

“Good, drink up. I’ve got another six cups in the kitchen.”

Frank nearly dropped his mug. “Six?”

“When Gerard is anxious, he makes coffee,” Mikey explained.

“That’s a…really bad habit.”

Gerard tusked. “I’ve been trying to quit.”

“Anyway, moving on swiftly,” said Mikey. He cleared his throat. “Frank, what are you doing here? How did you get in? Do you know Gerard? Oh god, please say you didn’t fuck him. We discussed this!”

Gerard worked his jaw. “Um, did we?”

“I said very clearly, do not have sex with my friends!”

Gerard opened his mouth. “Wait, you two know each other?”

“Mikey, why are you here again?”

“I fucking live here, Frank! Now, if you would be so kind as to tell me how you know Gerard. Or, in other words, WHY DID YOU SLEEP WITH MY BROTHER?”

“Oh, so he’s your brother! I get it now!”

“YES YOU LITTLE SHIT.”

“I didn’t fuck him.” And then, Frank being the extremely reckless, notoriously terrible decision-maker he was famous for, said; “Yet.”

“Okay then,” said Mikey dismissively. 

“Wait what?” said Gerard in a small voice, blushing profoundly. 

“I’m kidding. I’ve like, friendzoned you or something. Also, you like maroon. I am not having sex with someone who wears maroon, ever.”

Gerard flipped him off, and managed to look weirdly innocent while doing so. “But seriously. How do you two know each other?”

“Gerard, meet Frank. Frank the friend who I sit on brick walls with sometimes.”

“Oh. Him. Hey, Frank.”

“Hey.”

“Moving on from that lovely encounter, Frank, if you didn’t have sex with my brother, why are you in my flat?”

Frank and Gerard looked at each other hesitantly. “Uhh…” Frank rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, he sort of accidently kidnapped me.”

Mikey choked on his coffee. “WHAT?”

“Heheh. Yeah, about that. More coffee, anyone?” Gerard disappeared into the kitchen once more.

Once Gerard left, Mikey stood up and finally closed the door. He mentioned towards the threadbare blanket/cushion pile in the furthest corner of the main room, where Frank had slept last night. There they sat, together as always, simply lost in thought. But, lost in thought together.

“You know, you and Gerard both rub your neck when you’re nervous,” Mikey said all of a sudden. Frank didn’t reply.

“Look, Frank. What really happened? Is this about your dad?”

Frank shuddered as reality came crashing down, the illusion of the little safe haven of a flat dissolving.

“Well, Gerard stole my mum’s car. I was still inside it, asleep. And here we are.”

“Why don’t you just go home? You could just leave, Gerard wouldn’t have tried to stop you. Anyhow, he couldn’t hurt a fly.”

“I think you know why.”

“Code?”

It was a thing they had been doing for almost as long as they knew each other. Whenever something bad was happening at home, or whenever they were having an episode, they would rate their feelings by colour. Green being happy, and red being the other side of the scale; and so forth.

“Red,” said Frank quietly. “I can’t go back. I can’t relive the time he was home. I can barely wake up in the morning.”

Mikey scooted over to him and pulled him into a hug that smelt of coffee and cigarette smoke. “It’s okay, Frank.”

“He’s coming to get me, Mikey,” said Frank quietly, throat tightening as his mind unravelled.

It reminded him of, back in year nine, where they did D-day in history. There was a clip from some film they watched of the D-day landings, and in it the actors stormed the beaches of Normandy. Boarding leaky boats, so sure of themselves; they would survive, even if the others didn’t. Then seeing their faces contort in agony as they were shot down, as explosions blew them apart, as the people they had shared hard times with were murdered in front of their eyes. And in those small moments of pain, they called out; for comfort, for home, for salvation. Even they knew it would never come.

That was how Frank felt. A lost cause. A basket case, ripped apart by imaginary bullets and crippling anxiety. Giving himself the creeps. Mind playing tricks on him.

That video had haunted him to this day.

He leaned into Mikey’s bony embrace.

“What’s happening?”

Mikey didn’t look even glance up. “Gerard, Frank is staying with us.”

There was no reply, but Frank felt another pair of arms wrap themselves tightly around him.

-

Frank’s favourite place in the whole entire world was a pebbly beach.

The wind here was always biting and salty. It made his hair stick up in funny ways and stung the back of his throat, but he breathed in great gasps.

Here he was away from the world. Sure, there were faint, fuzzy outlines of figures surrounding him, but, for once, they didn’t matter. Here, it was just him and the ocean.

He took in his surroundings for just a moment. There were a few children, playing idly. A few perfect families. A few couples. Snippets of modern perfection, of utopian realities, of recycled American dreams.

Nothing special.

He ripped out his earphones and ran along the shoreline, tripping over pebbles, scraping his knees, bruising his feet. It didn’t matter.

In a drunken stupor, he chased the waves back and forth, giggling when the spray burnt his eyes. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. He was untouchable, for now.

He carried on darting about until he had shed every tear and screamed every profanity. Until each breath was short but a little easier.

Frank flopped down, right on the little mound of pebbles that the waves couldn’t quite reach for now. He sat and watched the sea.

Again and again and again.

The waves were a deep blue-grey mess today.

Again and again and again. Again and again and again.

The ocean was roaring with an especially frantic rage. A rage at humanity.

Again and again and again. Again and again and again. Again and again and again.

Frank’s lungs were burning from the brine. It didn’t matter. He deserved it.

Again and again and again. Again and again and again. Again and again and again. Again and again and again.

The grasp of the sea just brushed his boot. It spanned out long fingers, grabbing at the dulled rainbow of pebbles. A few tumbled loose, dragged backward in a smaller, barely visible wave. Another force lost to the sea’s hopeless cause.

Again and again and again. Again and again and again. Again and again and again. Again and again and again. Again and again and again.

The tide was coming in. The waves pummelled the shores, drawn towards the shiny prize far away in the sky that manipulated their tragic and beautiful existence. They knew they were hopeless. But the great force of water knew that, one day, they could be seen and heard and felt in their full potential, be tasted and breathed in true colour, they could fix all these faults. Kill all these people.

Again and again and again. Again and again and again. Again and again and again. Again and again and again. Again and again and again. Again and again and-

“Frank?”

Frank tore his gaze away from the ocean. Gerard.

He sat down beside the smaller boy, breathing in deeply though his nose.

“Its chaos, isn’t it,” he said after a while, nodding toward the water.

“Method to their madness.” His voice was small.

“Every wave is so…identical. Perfect.”

“Far from it. The sea isn’t perfect. Just…better. A better application of the same energy.”

“How?”

“It tries again, tries harder. More than any of us. It has…something I don’t. But I still understand it and need it.”

“Your mind works in a strange way.”

“So does yours, Gerard. So does everybody’s. We should stop trying to understand each other, and fight instead.”

Gerard stood up and dipped his shoe into the water.

“Who do you want to be when you grow up?”

“I am grown up.”

Frank got lost in the sea for a moment. “No. Who do you want to be when you grow up?”

“Somebody.” Gerard chuckled dryly.

“Okay. But pretend you could be whoever you want, have whatever life you want. Who would you be?”

“If I was somebody, then the world would be my oyster, Frank. If I had mental stability and financial stability and emotional stability, I could do everything. I don’t want a fairy godmother to come make all my dreams come true. If I was somebody, I would work for my dreams, and I would love it. And I could’ve had that with certain circumstances, if I had just a little support from the government and my parents. But I don’t. And so, I wander dreamless.”

“You’re wrong.”

“How?”

“You shouldn’t do that. I know you’re not somebody, but do you really need to be? What do you want to do?”

Gerard sighed. “Paint. Be happy. Sing. I don’t know.”

“Do it. Pursue your dreams. Don’t give up hope because on the road to your fantasies you might just figure out who you are. If you’re ever empty or meaningless or lost you should carry on, you need to try because things may work out and one day you will see the world in colour and one day, one day you will learn how to live again.”

Gerard gulped in the sea air, leaning toward the rolling waves, almost as if he was being drawn to them.

“We should go back home now.”

“Home,” Frank said uncertainly. Gerard offered him a hand, helping him up. Neither of them spoke on the journey back, until they were parked in the lot by the block of flats.

“Who do you want to be when you grow up, Frank?”

He smiled. “Nobody.”

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyway thanks for reading gbye


	5. until your breathing stops, forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from that song abt chicago its fall out boy do you expect me to remember the title

Things don’t just happen overnight.

You don’t just wake up one morning, feeling like you’re about to suffocate. You wake up every morning feeling like you’re about to suffocate. You’ve had every single day of your life controlled by a choking around your throat, a racing in your heart; every day is dictated by imaginary things.

Frank had experienced that feeling often. Hell, he had grown up with it. All his life he had felt wrong and uncomfortable and detached with little clue to what it meant, and he had no control over it. Regardless what decisions he made, a huge monster of anxiety hung close, close, closer. 

So, he was kind of used to feeling like shit by now.

Everything inside his head was so loud and rambling, and some days it felt like a balloon pumped with so much helium that it was about to explode, and Frank would explode with it, and he took delight in the fact that his life could end due to some abstract, empty metaphor. But, the norm feels like the norm, even if your head is exploding. Such is life.

“How’s it going?”

Frank glanced over to see Mikey, thankfully not in a stripper outfit this time, balancing on the edge of the miniscule table crammed into the kitchen. 

“It’s…going.”

Mikey smiled. “That’s what I like to hear. Now, up you get. We’ve got some errands to run.”

“What?” Frank looked up from his Cheerios for only the second time that day.

“Yep, that’s right.” Mikey grabbed him, chair cluttering to the ground, and spun him in a circle. “Now that you’re a part of this household, you gotta help out. I’ve got a three hour shift down at the bookshop, so your mission is to help Gerard do everything we gotta do!”

Frank grunted, shovelling Cheerios into his mouth while stood up. “Can’t Gerard do that on his own?”

“Don’t speak with your mouth full. No he can’t, last time I let him he brought £50 worth of acrylic paint. You need to supervise him, basically.”

Frank groaned. “But my stomach hurts.”

“Stop eating cereal then. Gross, don’t scowl at me, I can see the food in your mouth.”

“I don’t want to goooooooooo!”

“Tough.”

Frank’s eyes lit up. “I can’t go outside. I’m a missing person!”

Mikey met Frank’s eyes and smirked. Of course he had thought of everything.

“GERARD! WE’VE GOT SOME FASHION DILEMMAS AND WE NEED YOUR HELP!”

Frank shook his head at Mikey, making cutthroat gestures. He sighed.

“Please don’t let him dress me in maroon.”

-

Frank’s favourite thing about the Way brothers was how they made him feel young again.

Sometimes, you met people whose brains seemed to have forgotten to grow up. They were the likes of geniuses; those who saw beauty and adventure amongst the pain they felt.

They were unique, as melancholy as both of them may be, as heavy of a burden as both of them may carry, as brokenly as both pairs of eyes may sparkle. And when they were on a mission, hells were raised.

“Okay, hoodies are an obvious way to go, but that’s just edging on suspicious. I mean, there are multiple situations in which you would have to take off a hood, so we need backup.”

“A fake moustache can do wonders for your face, you know.” Mikey gave a curt nod, sounding like he knew what he was talking about.

“In what situation did you use a fake moustache?”

Mikey shrugged, avoiding eye contact. 

“Okay, so if we use a moustache, and a suit, and a really tall hat, we can say you’re the circus guy who directs everything and says ‘roll up, roll up’! Sound good?” Gerard grinned eagerly. 

“If we’re gonna use that, you should probably google it then.” Gerard whipped out his phone. 

“Why are you making this so complex? If you really want to use a moustache surely I should be a businessman, or at least a pedophile.”

Mikey sighed. “The whole point of this is to avoid police attention, dumbass.”

“Then businessman?”

“That might backfire. The police’ll be all like ‘oh hello sir hope you are having a fine day’ or whatever rich people do. Nah, I have a better idea. There are two ground ways of transforming the identity of a face; concealing, and accentuating. And, Frank dear, you have certain features we can accentuate…”

“You know a little too much about this,” Frank muttered. 

“That’s right, Frank is now becoming Frankie! Time to transform you into a girl!”

Frank jumped at Mikey’s throat, shaking his head wildly.

“I am not a drag queen! I am not a drag queen!” he repeated like a mantra. Mikey scrambled to protect himself, trying to franticly soothe Frank before he killed someone, or himself. Or the nice vase that belonged to Grandma.

“RINGLEADER! IT’S CALLED A RINGLEADER!”

-

“Frank, why are your knees scrapped up?”

“Self destruction,” Frank answered.

-

“You don’t talk about our family a whole lot.”

It had the air of a question, but Frank refused to acknowledge that.

“Yeah, I guess not.”

They were in the middle of the bustling market, both looking like twats while desperately trying to avoid eye contact with the policemen patrolling. Gerard was wearing a Wombats shirt (“The Wombats? Seriously?” “Shut up Frank. A Guide to Love, Loss and Desperation is a modern masterpiece!”) and a stripy hoodie that was the polar opposite of discrete. Frank, on the other hand, wore Mikey’s woman size Joy Division shirt. (Gerard proceeded to sing the whole of Let’s Dance To Joy Division by The Wombats, with Mikey on backup vocals, just to spite Frank. Gerard had a nice voice. Mikey did not.) He also had a rather nice denim skater skirt, a bra and insert plastic things. The bra was polka dot. 

He also had a face full of makeup. The lipstick was bright red and he even had fucking contour. (“Perks of knowing professional broke artists.”) In other words, he felt fabulous and a little embarrassed to be associating with Gerard, The Wombats trash #1. 

“Is there any reason you don’t talk about it?” Frank saw the question coming a mile off. Gerard avoided eye contact, shovelling Sainsbury’s off-brand instant noodles into Frank’s handbag.

“Oh, plenty,” said Frank, nonchalantly, but in a stubborn way, chaotic neutral he was.

Gerard frowned. “Sorry.”

Frank sighed, feeling a bit bad about his casual passive aggression. “Look, it’s no big deal. I just try not to think about them at all, really. I know bottling up my issues will make it worse or whatever, but I’m not ready to come to terms with…anything. Everything. Sure, maybe one day it’ll destroy me. But I couldn’t give a shit, not anymore. It eats me up, but what else can I do? It’s too late for me.”

“So you’re just going to give up?”

“On myself, yes. But not on the world.” Frank’s mouth set in a small line of determination. “I won’t stop fighting until every kid out there gets a second chance. And if that means I’ll be fighting for eternity, then so be it.”

“So you want to improve life for everybody else, but not yourself?”

“Don’t make me sound like a superhero. I’m nothing special.”

“Agree to disagree.” Gerard turned to some creepy skinhead in a stall selling wares. “Is this coffee Fairtrade?”

“Yeah. Want some drugs, mate? I’ve got a whole load and the policeman over there is eyeing me up.” 

“Maybe he has a crush on you. And I’m good thanks. Can I have some coffee instead?”

The guy began to wrap up several pots of coffee. “I will literally sell this for 75% off if you buy my weed. Please.”

“Try seducing him if he comes over. Also, using incense to cover up the smell is really obvious. Hire a fuckboy and steal his Lynx.”

The guy shrugged. “Alright. You get two quid off for the good tips. See you around.”

They both carried on with their shopping, trying to avoid the dodgier stalls (which is pretty goddang difficult). 

“Why do you drink coffee instead of tea?”

“That’s a good question. Have you ever heard the song Coffee And TV by Blur?”

Frank stared at him with a kind of resigned wonder. “Gerard, look at yourself. You are the definition of pretentious British post-punk. It pains me.”

He laughed. “Tea is traditional, I guess. Like, that song is all about…fear. The fear of change that hangs over this blasted country. A hatred of postmodern American culture. It’s realising the danger we live in, the danger of modern culture. And, sure, that culture sucks. But it comes with a counter-culture of progression and rebellion that some people reject even further. They fear the coffee and the TV. It’s consumerism, and tea is tradition. But every part of the song is true. We’re brain dead virtually. I’ve lived in the countryside, and…there is people there who will hurt you because of who you are.” Gerard became very quiet all of a sudden.

Frank nudged him slightly. “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em, basically? Very dystopian.”

“Yeah. I like proving points.”

“Hold up. You don’t drink tea because of a metaphor in a Blur song?” Gerard became rather fascinated with his mucky fake Converse. “Oh my god. You’re more of a pretentious British post-punk personification than I thought.”

A spark lit up in Gerard’s eyes, one that made him look kind of…beautiful. Alive.

“Shut up, you.”

-

Mikey worked in a Waterstones on the high street.

Gerard had insisted on visiting it. He aimed to extend his excessive collection of amusing Shakespeare novelty badges, and Waterstones had released some more.

“I’m not going to buy any. I can’t afford it, what with my already wasteful vacuum habits.” 

“Like making coffee when you’re nervous?”

Gerard grinned, but it was a little empty. Maybe Frank’s jokes weren’t funny.

“Look, the shop has a little side room where we can wait for Mikey. It’s nice. I do my painting in there sometimes. And I write in it, as well.”

“Can I read your writing?”

Gerard froze, but before he could absorb the request, Mikey noticed them.

He looked remarkably scrawny in the clearly loaned oversized polo shirt all the staff wore. His wild hair and equally as wild eyes made him look like some kind of zombie scarecrow. Sort of like that episode of Doctor Who, but; creepier. Unstable.

“Hey! Gerard! Frank!”

“Hello there, nerd. How’s your nerd shop going?” Mikey thwacked him. 

“Hey Mikey, where are the badges? I must see them, I must worship them.” 

“They’re over there by the till. Look, if you want you can use my staff discount and buy yourself one, it doesn’t matter.”

Gerard sighed, face ever-so-slightly frowning. “No, Mikey. It’s okay.” It was almost as if he had closed himself up entirely; his body was turned inwards, his shoulders were hunched. He gripped Frank’s shoulder with an unsteady hand, leading him towards the corner of the large shop. “We’ll be in the side office waiting for you.”

Mikey gave Gerard a withering look, barely readable from his stoic features.

“Mikey worries about you,” said Frank, forcing an even voice.

“God knows why. There are better things to worry about,” he replied. “Like politics.”

“Nuclear weapons.”

“Factory farming.”

“Brexit.”

“Consumerism.”

“War.”

“Fossil fuels.”

“The gap between poverty and wealth.”

“The economy.”

“Like I said, Brexit.” They both laughed at their oncoming doom. “But seriously, humans have unlimited worry resources anyway, so regardless of the wreck that is the modern world, I think you’re very much worth the worry.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

There was a lull, a comfortable one, in the conversation.

“You never answered my question,” Frank said suddenly and all at once. “You know. Will you let me read your writing?”

Gerard had already picked up his sketchbook, and was creating the ghost of a face in a faint golden. “No.”

“Oh, okay.”

“I mean- uh, maybe later. I don’t know.”

The door burst open, a tall figure standing in the doorway. Frank froze, as if caught in the act of…he didn’t know what. His normally lazy brain didn’t hesitate in creating about a thousand terrible and completely nonsensical scenarios in the brief half second of silence.

“Hey Gee!” The voice was smiley, if that was even possible. 

“Ah! Lindsey, gah, how have you been?”

The figure frowned. As she walked towards them, the light pooled across her face and revealed her features. Her plaid skirt was too short for it to be anything other than a political statement, and she wore a rolled black shirt (revealing the coolest tattoos Frank had seen in a long time) paired with a short, loose schoolgirl tie. She was wearing a bright red lipstick grin and had her hair pulled back in an unnaturally dark ponytail, looking spookily like Kathleen Hanna. Yep, every inch of her screamed feminist lesbian punk that would crush Frank under second hand Doc Martens the moment he wronged her.

“Bitch, maybe you would know if you ever stopped off at the stall to say hi,” she sassed. “Hey, who’s the cutie?”

“He’s a guy, Lindsey.”

“Goddamn it.” She leaned in close to Frank, chewing gum obnoxiously. Frank felt he should be savouring this moment, for some reason, because she was clearly like a goddess or something. “Aha! Knew it, you’re the missing kid.”

Frank froze, mouth growing dry. His brain was screaming at him to run, but he couldn’t, couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, so he resigned himself to the end…

“Ha! You’re getting slow.”

“Awh, fuck you man.” She turned back to Frank, taking in his terror all at once. “Oh babe, don’t worry! Me an’ Gerard here have been best friends since forever, and anyway, you do you. If that involves getting the heck outta here then that’s up to you, I ain’t gonna rumble you!”

“Lynz has a photographic memory,” Gerard said, jabbing a thumb at her. “It’s just a bit of fun, you’re not that obvious, don’t worry yourself into a state.”

_Yeah, I would if I fucking could, believe me_ thought Frank, but he didn’t say that.

“Uh, I’m just gonna. Get some air.” They nodded, Gerard looking a little apologetic. Frank ignored it.

He rushed past Mikey’s station at the till, keeping his head firmly down, until he got to the door. He gulped in the crisp air gratefully, panic numbing to a simple non-physical roar in the distance that he could ignore with a little practice.

However, he couldn’t ignore the stab in the deepest part of his gut if he thought of the way Gerard had looked at Lindsey whenever she spoke. It just…felt odd. It shook him more than Lindsey’s magical memory powers.

He deliberately relaxed his shoulders, shaking his body to wake it up. He needed to snap out of it, he needed to snap out of…whatever tragic curse hung over his body.

His eyes skirted casually across the bustling street, taking in the sheer amount of lives. Just people, mere people so insignificant in the eyes of…well, anybody else. But Frank nearly doubled over at the reality, the street so full of superficial detail and twisted desire and complex pain and ideas and hatred and love and it made him feel overwhelmed, because the world was flooded with people, all real and all important.

Maybe it would be easier if the world was flooded with water.

A sea of faces he had never seen and would never see again was way more intimidating than a mass of seawater that would kill you in an instant. These faces that all could love you and care for you, show you magic but equally could hate you and hurt you and…

And…

And, there. Just there. Standing on the street corner. And, there he was.

His father.

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. a guide to love, loss and desperation IS a modern masterpiece   
> 2\. I strongly recommend you go listen to coffee and TV   
> 3\. reminder this is set in brighton hence the brexit jokes and blur references (Did You Mean: my ENTIRE sense of humour)  
> 4\. go and read Lindsey's parts in a Liverpool accent I dare you  
> 5\. I also love Lindsey v much can u tell  
> 6\. sorry for not updating this in months I have about a million ongoing oneshots I haven't posted online legit I have a real emotional petekey that's nearly 10k im so sorrrrry


	6. tryin' to anaesthetise the way that you feel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from radio, radio by elvis costello and the attractions (alternatively titled Legit The Best Song Ever)
> 
> for context (its been a while innit) frank just saw his dad. we don't like his dad. uh oh whats gonna happen next guess u better read it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in fact this chapter has some alternate titles too:
> 
> -Wow, That's A Lot Of Similes
> 
> -A Suspicious Lack Of Dialogue
> 
> -The Atrocious Love Child Of Caffeine, No Life, And Low Quality Punk Music

Frank froze.

No, listen. He literally froze. Although his body temperature hadn’t dramatically changed, it might as well have, because he felt immovable. 

His blood thickened, and flowed like a sickly milkshake in his veins. His throat was closing in, swollen up to a balloon, and his head…his head…

In that moment, Frank wouldn’t had noticed if aliens stole his brain away, because it’s not like it was serving any logical purpose. He was just standing there, and part of his consciousness was screaming, move, get out of there, now, but he couldn’t, he couldn’t even move he couldn’t even begin-

Felt like hours. Hours of frozen limbs, before something hot surged up from his insides, a roaring mass within his own body. He turned around and vomited on the pavement. 

A random women with platinum blonde hair tried to touch his arm, asking him if he was alright. He flinched, nothing but a reflex from years of anxiety, but a reflex was all it took to get his blood flowing again. 

And Frank was gone. His paralysis forgotten, and he was running, full pelt, full adrenaline. His mouth still tasted of vomit. His brain was not working but it was okay because he was running as fast as his strung-out muscles would allow. And all he could hear was the steady thud of foot against tarmac. Not the outraged yells of the people he pushed past, not the gushing of blood, not the labour in his breath as bile rose rapidly, not the yells of his name. 

Eventually he had to stop, because the idea of vomiting while in motion didn’t sound too fun. And he vomited, all right. Retched until it felt like his lungs were bursting from the top of his throat, before collapsing with a heaving sob.

His brain caught up with him, more or less, and it made Frank want to scream, because he would rather not think at this present moment. 

Frank laughed, in spite. He was fucking terrified, now that semi-rational thought had kicked in. And, while his world was falling down around him, he was bent over on gritty concrete, and he had no clue where he was, and people were staring. Fucking fantastic.

He pressed his forehead to the cold stone. His gut was churning uncontrollably, but the feeling had travelled beyond his abdomen and it felt like every fibre of his body had been chopped up into tiny pieces and were churning around, trying to fit themselves back together again. 

Then the laughter changed. He was crying, hard, and not dramatic movie scene crying, either; he was hiccupping desperately, clutching at nothing, snot and bile bubbling as tears stung his face. It felt like he would vomit again, and his stomach tightened, but nothing happened. It was as if there was a monster inside his gut, tearing at his muscles, and his body was fighting itself to get rid of it, but without success.

People, indistinct figures, chattered and swarmed around his vision. Like shades, like purgatory. Yeah, let them look, he screamed inside his head.

Grimacing, he clawed his way up to a sitting positions. His hands were covered in gravel and blood, but he felt nothing. He felt like a shell. He felt disembodied. 

As a futile attempt to feel real again, he spat. The effort made him shake.

The people were still looking. A tiny, wrecked teenager in drag, shaking, leant against a brick wall in the middle of Brighton at midday; couldn’t have been the most interesting thing they’d seen. Did they pity him? Were they going to go back to the office and tell their colleague after they finished their overpriced chips? 

Oh, look at THEM. Shades, hooked up to the machine. Gazing at him with empty eyes. Pathos is dead. Some of us overwhelmed by indifference, some worried about the times ahead. 

Frank would rather inhabit his worry-wrecked, mortal vessel, than live a bland life. Anything for something.

He tried to picture his father, in order to begin processing (something which he had been apparently procrastinating) but for some reason, the face just wouldn’t form. Frank tried piecing together the jigsaw, but it made his head hurt.

There was a hole in his head, a face that had been whited out, something, something not there. And Frank had no clue what to do about it.

So, he didn’t do anything about it. 

He laughed again, full of mirth. Probably looked like a madman. A madman in a fucking skater skirt. 

He laughed and laughed and he needed to be sick again and the world was swimming he laughed and he choked. His hands were red raw from the concreate and he was twitching and the world was still tearing carefully at the seams, like in Labyrinth, when Sarah outwits David Bowie and his goblin kingdom is torn and falls away like it has been scrubbed with soap and water. 

Arms. Arms were snaking their way around his shaken body. It made him angry, knowing how easily he slipped into their embrace. They weren’t particularly strong, but they were warm, and gentle, and Frank liked that. 

His head was throbbing, so he screwed his eyes shut, and all he could feel were tremors. Ripping through his worn frame.

-

Frank hadn’t the slightest clue what had happened to him. It was like some out-of-body experience you read about on dodgy conspiracy websites.

Once he opened his eyes again, it felt as if the whole world had been recalibrated. All he could register was the off-ness of his reality, before turning to the side and retching up the contents of his stomach. 

Every part of his being felt exhausted through and through. He recognised this feeling as the result of shaking; aggressive nervous trembling that made his body turn to jelly and his gut impossibly tight.

Despite his wear, he started trembling again before he could even muster the thought of calming himself down. A whimper escaped his throat. 

Hands, strong arms were enveloping him again, taking the edge off his panic, and he leaned into them this time. He sniffed, closing his eyes and relishing in the feeling of comfort and support. 

Frank was still shaking, but a familiar smell met him, and his brain eventually calmed enough to actually work. He blinked, vison fuzzy, blurring.

“Morning, sunshine,” said Gerard. The light was on.

Frank grunted.

“Were you drunk?”

“No, just scared.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

Frank used Gerard’s support to stand up and get his bearings. Mikey’s room. 

“Mikey had to go out, so I brought you in here. Bed’s a bit comfier, and there’s not any tat on the floor. Suited its purpose.”

Frank didn’t reply, just wobbled over towards the window while Gerard continued to ramble about nothing. It was dark, outside. The streetlamp pooled orange light into the midnight blue, but seemed a little broken, so blinked now and again. Very horror movie.

Frank still had a wavering grasp on reality, so Gerard’s words swam about the room, dancing in the lamplight. He could practically see the sound waves, rippling about the air, tiny packets of energy.

There was a word. There was a word for it, but Frank never really understood physics anyway.

“Frank, do you like chips?” 

Frank found it funny that was the moment his brain decided to tune back in.

“Yeah I do. I think the real question is, who doesn’t?”

Gerard laughed, and it was music to Frank’s ears.

-

Well, that’s a summary of how they ended up eating chips on the seafront.

Gerard was certainly a fan of the spontaneous, and once an idea had gotten stuck to that skull of his, he was beyond reason. Frank liked that about him. He didn’t really think, most of the time, and not thinking is one of the wisest decisions one could make (so long as you don’t vote). 

The pier was bustling; it was only 9pm, and Brighton’s nightlife was awakening from their monotonous slumber of modern life.

There are people, and they’re young, and they’re full of ambition. And, day after day, they’re cooped up, growing beneath artificial light, breathing in pollution, living a life painted in grey. 

But they resist. They rebel. They throw away their brains, for a while, and they let down their hair. At night, they go out. Sometimes they get pissed, sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they fuck, sometimes they don’t. But, either way, they manage to remember why they are here on this planet. They manage to feel alive, for the night, and that’s fantastic. 

Until they wither and move to the suburbs and forget what revolution tastes of. Just like everybody else under the sun.

That night, the lights danced upon the waves, and the air pierced Frank’s lungs. It felt like freedom. 

 

Gerard accidently mangled a chip with his stabby wooden thing. It slipped off and he cased it around the mountain of greasy potato, wrapped in newspaper, like it should be.

He laughed at his own failure, meeting Frank’s eyes. They gleamed in the lights, too, just like the sea. And his features were cloaked in the winter darkness, but Frank could still see his smile, and every detail of it. Shit, it was beautiful.

Frank was freezing his balls off, but it seemed to sharpen, hone, his senses. Everything seemed ten times more intense, and usually he hated feeling overwhelmed, but tonight…tonight was different. He had room to breathe.

It was quite a swing from the events of the morning, but what’s the difference? Fear, hope; either way, he’s feeling something. And feeling is hard.

Gerard nudged him, to point out something. He was looking at Frank expectantly, and time seemed to slow, as Frank registered everything.

He never came here, beside the pier, because it was busy. The people drowned out the sea, or so he thought; but, the sea was still there. Still roaring at the back of his brain.

The air was choked with smells; chips, churros, pancakes, hot dogs, doughnuts. Fairground stuff. The permanent party, the constant childhood.

People were entwined within the crowd. Everywhere, there were children clinging to parents, friends sharing food, couples holding hands. People, so many people, waning and waxing with the ocean. All dancing, moving, to imaginary beats.

A busker was playing her final song. Something twangy, on an acoustic guitar. It sounded sad.

And Gerard. There was Gerard. A name to a face among thousands, millions. He could easily be just another dot in the crowd, but he wasn’t. 

By circumstance, coincidence, he was sitting beside Frank, and eating chips on the seafront. Face lit up by swirling and distant light, illuminating his average features, his forgettable features, in a way that was impossibly beautiful.

And Frank really, really wanted to kiss him, and that was annoying, because he barely knew the guy. 

Eventually, they finished off their chips in a lovely silence. Needless to say, Frank didn’t kiss him. Maybe if the circumstances were different, he would’ve embraced his mortality and lived while he had the chance and all that crap, but no. Not tonight.

Tonight he was gonna smile. Smile and look at the fucking sea.

-

Not far away from the pier was the high street, and the crowds there were even thicker. 

All the lights were on, glittering, glamourous. People mingled at the foot of elegant bars, while others smoked in the gritty backalleys. There was a concert tonight, some local band, pretty big in the scene. Frank had wanted to go, but the queue was already out in the streets.

Silhouetted in the lamplight were the matching pride flags left over from the summer parade. Brighton Pride is famous for being really fucking sick; Frank had watched the parade as it passed his house. His mother had yelled at him. 

He shuddered. Hey, at least the city would accept him.

Gerard led him into one of the grimy alleys, muttering something about needing a fag. Frank sniffed and stared at the lamppost while Gerard smoked.

As per usual, it was decorated with stickers and posters promoting every cause imaginable. Together, the brashness was beautiful; a collage of bold text and bright colours, weatherworn, confined to a grimy lamppost. Where they belonged, maybe.

A band logo. Save Our NHS. An anarchy symbol. A swastika. A cartoon pair of tits. An Adventure Time sticker. Vote Remain. Vote Saxon. A poster advertising a local dry cleaners. 

A policeman scowled at him as he passed, patrolling or some shit. Frank resisted the urge to flip him the bird. Go lock up some child abusers, bastard. 

“Terrorising the authorities, huh, Frankie?”

“Finished destroying your lungs, huh, Gee?”

“We have to pick up Mikey at 2am, so we have, like, a fair few hours,” said Gerard.

Frank smiled, wide. And off they went, perusing Trouble, like her faithful hound.

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you gauged some meaning to that mad parade. 
> 
> sorry about the slow updates. ive been ill, busy, perpetually depressed, unmotivated, and watching doctor who. its a thrilling life.
> 
> please go and have a wondrous day. dream some dreams, listen to some banging tunes, have a snack, go outside, and remember to never ever conform to any bastard. so long


End file.
